A Dash of Spice (Snowed In & Snuggled Up #2)

by Calista Fox

  “Of the highest order,” Vaux chortled. And tossed out his last card. It spun midair. Scout’s breath caught.

  The card hit the table.

  Nine of hearts.

  No royal flush.

  No flush at all.

  No straight.

  Not even a pair.

  Bupkis.

  Fuck, yes!

  A sharp stream of air blew through Scout’s parted lips as he stared at the card. “Son of a gun. That was damn, damn close.”

  His stomach returned to its proper place. His pulse stopped echoing in his ears.

  Vaux gave him a grin full of respect. “You’ve got balls, boy. I like that. You did your gramps proud. I’m not even gonna bust your chops over the loot you’re stealing from under my nose.”

  “From under your nose, my ass,” Scout scoffed as he raked the chips his way. “I played that hand with Winchester style and steel resolve.”

  “Precisely what I’d expect from this generation of Wins. Now, cash-in and then go collect your real prize. There’s one hell of a looker over at the jukebox who, as far as I can tell, only has eyes for you. Can’t for the life of me figure out why, though…”

  Scout’s head popped up from his winnings. And his gaze instantly landed on five-foot-eight-inches of hotness the likes of which he’d never known.

  A raven-haired beauty in black leather pants and boots, wearing a tight, slightly shimmery snakeskin-print sweater in sapphire and black, with a silver zipper that ended just below plumped up breasts, and a low neckline trimmed with black fur.

  Her tawny irises flashed with excitement and a hint of mischief. Sending all the blood straight to his groin.

  Amendment: This actually was hotness he was well-versed in.

  A living, breathing fantasy.

  Known as Ciara St. James.

  Chapter Two

  Ciara’s recent string of bad luck just might have changed.

  She watched Scout Winchester stuff a wad of cash into the front pocket of faded Levi’s that fit him sinfully well. As did the grey sweater that pulled tight against his defined pectoral ledge and bulging biceps. He’d pushed the sleeves up to mid-forearm, giving her a fine view of tanned skin and sinew.

  He sauntered toward her in the far corner, weaving his way around tables and accepting slaps on the back for having beaten Vaux Forsythe at his own game. It was a rare occasion when someone did.

  Scout was also the recipient of many dreamy—okay, blatantly lustful—looks from the local ladies. Ciara knew that only a handful of them actually frequented Waylon’s.

  JT Winchester’s best friend Cody owned a hipper bar for the younger, more modern denizens of Plymouth Rock and the surrounding area. Codiacs was always hopping on a Saturday evening. But rumor spread like wildfire in these parts and every single gal within a fifty-mile radius seemed to know when Scout blew into town. When his brothers did as well.

  A triple-threat to a girl’s heart.

  Though hers would only ever belong to one Win.

  Ciara’s gaze skated up Scout’s thick, corded neck to his strong, set jaw with what she guessed to be about two days of stubble lining it. He had dark-blond hair that was too long, yet lush and perfect for tangling her fingers in. The style was tousled and a lock fell across his forehead. Her eyes connected with his melted-chocolate ones and Ciara lost her breath.

  Scout was ruggedly handsome and towered over her even though she wore four-inch heels.

  He didn’t say a word to her. Just maintained the intense eye contact as he reached out a hand. Ciara slipped hers in his and he tugged gently, now walking backward onto the small dance floor that was just starting to fill up with the conclusion of the dueling poker heroes, bringing her willingly with him. The band was currently on break, but Ciara had loaded up the jukebox with hers and Scout’s favorites. He pulled her to him and they swayed together to a tune by The Smashing Pumpkins.

  Desire instantly burned through Ciara. So, too, did emotions that were raw and powerful. She knew Scout could read each and every one of them on her face. Likely the reason he didn’t speak. Just held her close to him. Close enough that her breasts brushed against his chest and she breathed in the earthy, manly spiced scent of him. Her fingers curled around the side of his neck. The other hand was twined with his and resting on his hard pecs, at his heart.

  Her breathing escalated at Scout’s nearness. At the reality of him, versus the fantasies she’d relied on to keep her company over the years. The blood turned molten in her veins as she inched closer, melding into him, their bodies grinding together.

  The thrill over being in Scout Winchester’s strong arms mixed with all of her memories of him. Every time he’d kissed her. Every time he’d made love to her. Every time he’d whisked away tears from her cheeks.

  There’d been plenty of tears. Starting way, way back. To her very first stay in Plymouth Rock. A temporary stay as all the others that followed had been. As this one would be.

  Scout’s head dipped and he inhaled the fragrance of her hair, her skin. Let out a low, sexy groan that sparked a riot of sensations in her belly. Deep in her core.

  They didn’t speak through two more songs. He didn’t seem to notice the couples around them anymore than she did. Ciara was lost. Drowning in desire and endless love.

  For Scout.

  Only for Scout.

  No, he didn’t know it. She’d never said the words. Nor had he. They didn’t really have to, in truth. They naturally gravitated to each other. Naturally fell perfectly in-step with each other. Even after all this time.

  The music flowed into The Cranberries hauntingly crooning When You’re Gone and Ciara and Scout continued their swaying, stuck in their own moment, in their own little world.

  Eventually, one corner of Scout’s tempting mouth lifted and his rich brown eyes smoldered as he murmured, “How is it that you just keep getting more and more beautiful? Like, steal my breath beautiful.”

  The backs of her eyes prickled, but she was able to blink away actual tears. “You always say the nicest things to me.”

  “Well, that’s much more innocent and tamer than what’s currently racing through my mind.” His voice was an intimate rumble that resonated within her, making her hotter. Intensifying the yearning that always stayed with her, long after they parted ways.

  And they always, always parted ways.

  It was inevitable. Inescapable.

  She said, “I wasn’t expecting you home for the holidays.”

  “Just this holiday. JT and Ham are rolling in as well. Might already be here, in fact, up at the cabin.”

  She smiled. “You know Hamilton hates when you call him Ham. Especially this time of year.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I do it.”

  She laughed softly.

  Scout’s warm lips grazed her temple as he said, “That’s a sound I miss hearing.”

  Ciara really hadn’t had that much to laugh about of late. Certainly not with the passing of Grandma Tilda last spring. It wasn’t easy to be back in Plymouth Rock, and definitely not easy for Ciara to sleep in the room that had been designated for her in Tilda’s big Colonial the first time her mother had gone to court-ordered rehab, when Ciara was eight. That’d been when she’d met Scout, whose family had lived in town. And his grandparents owned Win Creek Cabin on the mountain. Not so much a cabin but a gorgeous remote retreat.

  Ciara had loved when Scout or his Grandpa Win and Grandma Gracie would invite her and Tilda up for a winter campfire or a summer barbecue. Back in the day, the Win’s had been the very definition of family, despite the boys’ father being a colossal asshole who’d skipped out on them. Well, emotionally at any rate. It’d been Catherine Winchester who’d brazenly given him the boot.

  Ciara said, “Our phone conversations have become a little skimpy over the years.”

  “Hard to keep up when we’re both traveling so much, what with the differences in time zones and one of us always being on a plane when the other’s o
n the ground.” His jaw clenched briefly. Then he told her, “In addition to a few temporary ‘celebrity-coaching’ gigs, my agent has me on the road quite a bit, trying to get as much mileage out of my name before the next Bobby Hull or Wayne Gretzky comes along and I’m just a has been.”

  Her heart wrenched. Hockey was this man’s life, his deepest passion. And she respected every ounce of that, even if it did keep the distance between them.

  She assured him, “You’ll remain a hockey legend whether you’re playing or not, Scout. You scored the winning goal in the Olympics—in the last three nail-biting seconds of the game, no less—to give the U.S. a gold medal. Not to mention, you practically did the same thing for your professional team during two Stanley Cup championships—securing one win with a penalty shot and the other in sudden death. That makes you an eternal god of the sport. Immortalized like Hull and Gretzky.”

  “People don’t always remember things like that, sweetheart.”

  “True fans do,” she insisted. “Whether they’re hockey fans or just…fans of the man himself.”

  His melted eyes glowed warmly. “Well, as long as you don’t go forgetting about me…”

  “Never.” She smiled again. Then decided to press a little. “You just haven’t told me why you’re not playing anymore.”

  Scout seemed to swallow down a hard lump. It took him a couple of seconds to collect his thoughts before telling her, “The average pro career is five and a half years. I had a nice run at nine, after the Olympics. Then I decided to coach. I just haven’t found the right team for me yet. At the moment, I can be selective. In a few years, maybe not so much. I need to make this transition period count.”

  She studied him closely, noting the hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Not at all a familiar look coming from this man. Ciara sensed there was something he wasn’t sharing with her. Something about his change of heart these past ten months—the unexpected decision to be behind the boards, not on the ice—was tearing him up inside.

  But his expression morphed into a more relaxed one, and he flashed his wicked grin. The one that always made her restless—for him.

  He said, “I’ve got some serious coinage burning a hole in my pocket. What do you say I treat you to a bottle of fine wine at Venti’s? I imagine the kitchen is probably closed by now, but chances are good we can persuade Henry to let us take a table by a window and watch the breeze rustle the leaves on the trees under the street lamps. All the colors have changed.”

  And they were spectacular—blazing blood-orange, deep crimson, vibrant gold. The town was beautiful year-round, but fall and winter held their own special appeal. Ciara loved autumn’s brilliance. Along with the light dusting of snow covering the town square and the sidewalks. The mountain held a greater accumulation and the white-capped peaks were stunning in the backdrop.

  Regarding Scout’s mention of Henry Venti, she said, “You’re probably right. He’s particularly fond of your family.” She wagged a brow. “Especially your mother.”

  “I think they just hit it off because she has her Canning with Catherine cooking show and he, well, loves to cook. And eat.”

  Ciara was inclined to think it was a bit more than that, but didn’t divulge the juicy details some of the members of the Pilgrim Society had been more than happy to impart when she’d met with them earlier in the day. If those rumors were true, it was up to Scout’s mom to fill him in on her romantic life. Not for Ciara to whisper behind the woman’s back.

  “So how about it?” Scout taunted her with the invitation to admire the view of the town over wine. Mostly, she’d be admiring him, but still. It was a nice thought. Except…

  “I really should get over to the house,” she reluctantly said. “Marilyn picked me up in Durango and my first order of business was to take the jeep over for service since it’s sat for a while and then pick up some boxes of clothes I had shipped to Madison over at Lane’s Packaging. God, it was great to see Maddie again. And she’s doing up gift boxes for me for some silk and cashmere scarves I bought recently. She’s so freakin’ talented.”

  “I notice you went all Hollywood on me. That’s quite the outfit.” Excitement lit his eyes, making Ciara damn pleased she’d gone a little more risqué with the evening’s ensemble. She’d wanted to stand out, because Scout always drew a crowd.

  She told him, “Not Hollywood. I was in Paris for a travel documentary and couldn’t resist an afternoon shopping on the Champs-Élysées.”

  Ciara had never been into designer labels or glamorous clothes. That had been her mother’s thing. But having come a bit more into her own over the past several years, she’d gotten a little more adventurous. Thank God her ugly duckling stage had been just that—a stage. There was nothing fun—and everything painful—about being a Plain Jane when your mother was Delaney St. James, famous cover model.

  “Well,” Scout mused, “you look damn good. Seriously a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart. In or out of the black leather pants. With or without the makeup—and that incredibly sexy red lipstick.”

  Ciara grinned. “Such a charmer.” Though she teased, her gaze remained locked with his and she was sure he saw the gratitude in her eyes. Scout had always seen so much more than how she looked—had always been more interested in what went on inside her brain…her heart…her soul, rather than when she was going to gain some weight and finally fill out in all the right places. It’d taken until her early twenties to develop a more womanly figure. He’d waited patiently.

  Not that he hadn’t hit on her plenty of times. That had started around their freshman year of high school. She’d still been in her Dawson’s Creek “Joey” tomboy phase, but given that Scout was an outdoorsy type, he hadn’t minded.

  “Sooo,” he ventured now, in that tone of voice she was all-too familiar with. The why don’t we take this dancing someplace private? one that always did her in. “Forget Venti’s. I’m staying at the B&B. We could take a bottle of wine to my room.”

  As much as she wanted to gobble up that tasty morsel, this was one time when she really shouldn’t. Regretfully, she said, “I have a ton of work to do at the house. I have to uncover all the furniture and clean every square foot. Marilyn and your mother are coming over at the crack of dawn and we’re going to prep for the big Thanksgiving feast reenactment while the construction people craft the landing scene out back.”

  She continued to gaze up at him as they shifted into a slightly faster, edgier pace to Make Me Bad by Korn. A song that held meaning for them both, since it was about trying to overcome a drug addiction—something Ciara had prayed daily her mother would achieve—and it’d also been used in athletic ads and a popular hockey video game.

  “And, of course,” Ciara reminded him, “the society hosts their annual dinner tomorrow evening for sponsors. I need to wash up the good china and crystal. Unbox all the decorations I ordered.”

  “Did I remember to donate this year?”

  “Yes, you did. As always.”

  “Does that mean I’m invited to the dinner?”

  “Yes, it does,” she repeated, beaming up at him. “As always.”

  “Then I guess you know where I’ll be tomorrow night.”

  “Bring your appetite and be prepared for the traditional food coma, with or without the turkey tryptophan.”

  He chuckled good-naturedly. “As always.”

  Their festive music selection played out and someone, likely Vaux Forsythe, had pumped in quarters for Charley Pride and Frank Sinatra. An eclectic combo. And their exit cue.

  Scout said, “I’ll walk you to your jeep.”

  She kept the sparkly, burnt-orange Rubicon in Tilda’s garage—a house Ciara now owned, though that was a reality that still didn’t register in her mind. She’d basically lived a rootless existence her entire life and, like Scout, had never truly called any one place home.

  As a travel writer and popular blogger, Ciara was always off on a freelance adventure or on assignment. She’d used Tilda’s address for nea
rly a decade for business purposes only, and it was where she crashed on occasion when she needed some time to decompress from her whirlwind excursions. It just wasn’t quite the same now, without her grandma. Incredibly lonely and empty, in fact. Though hopefully that feeling would ebb when the place was filled with all the people who faithfully turned out for the Pilgrim Society’s extravaganzas during the holiday week.

  Scout grabbed his brown distressed-leather jacket with warm-looking shearling trim and they said their goodbyes to some of the townsfolk and left Waylon’s. When they reached the Rubicon parallel parked midway down the street, Ciara handed over the keys. Scout liked to do the manly thing and unlock and open her door for her.

  Before she climbed in, he brushed a few strands of hair from her temple. His finger and thumb lightly rubbed the thick lock. She’d changed the color from strawberry-blonde to nearly black, with a hint of red lowlights. The style was longer than she usually wore it and sleek, instead of the natural curls she’d never blown out until recently.

  He said, “I like this darker color. Very striking against all that creamy skin of yours.”

  Skin that tingled from his heated gaze. Yet disconcertion slithered down her spine.

  “I got a little tired of people telling me I look just like Delaney St. James. Ironic, since I’d spent so much of my life wishing I did. Sadly… I learned right off the bat that aside from appearances, I don’t ever want to be like my mother.”

  Scout gave a slight scowl. “It’s impossible for you to be like her, sweetheart. Cold and bitter. That’s not you, Ciara.”

  Her throat tightened. She felt the prickle again behind her eyes. But held the emotions in check. Coming back here always got to her.

  She said, “No one knows the true extent of my mother’s heroin addiction—just that, in the end, that’s what killed her. They don’t know how she acted when cameras weren’t rolling or flashing. I won’t ever tell anyone. You and Tilda are the only ones besides me who know how ugly she was on the inside. And I appreciate that you’ve always kept my secret.”